It’s a testament to my family’s Lakers fandom that minutes after we absorbed the news Kobe Bryant had died in a helicopter crash, our phones beeped with incoming texts: “Are you guys OK?” “We’re thinking about you.” “I’m so sorry.”

The sympathetic messengers knew our children were Kobe-philes, literally from birth. There is a photo of a chubby Firstborn sitting on Papa’s lap, little arms raised in cheer as he watched the Lakers win their third straight NBA title in 2002. He was about 3 months old.

Wonder Boy, enthroned in his high chair, could chant, “La-kers! La-kers!” almost as soon as he could talk. And Cheeky Baby was gifted with Lakers onesies and outfits from sizes newborn, 6 months and 12 months, the better to grow a true fan.

Even though I still can’t tell a defensive foul from a charge, I loved that my children (and my husband for that matter) found a hero in Kobe (yes, he only went by his first name at our house, too.) He was the reason they picked up a basketball, worked hard at their layups, pushed themselves to improve, and learned to love the game.

Our family bonded during each game, during halftime, and even after. When the kids got old enough, we dissected each loss and crowed over each victory. We couldn’t afford to go to many games at Staples Center, but even just being outside was a thrill.

We were all at Cheeky’s basketball tryouts in Arcadia when someone first came up to us: “Hey, did you hear?” We didn’t allow ourselves to accept the tragedy until ESPN reporter Adrian Wojnarowski tweeted the news. Woj would know. Then we had to believe.

That chubby baby on Papa’s lap, all of 18 now, said the news knocked the wind out of him. Later, he asked for a hug. Wonder Boy, my man of few words, kept checking his phone, reporting anything new, clicking on message boards and web sites, trying to find someone who could dispel the oppressive fog.

“Mom, we grew up with him,” Firstborn said, as if I hadn’t been there.

By day’s end on Sunday, Jan. 26, a memorial had grown at Staples Center in honor of Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna. (Contributed photo by Anissa Rivera)

Of course they had to go to Staples Center that first night, after rummaging through their messy room to find their beloved jerseys. My son brought out his treasured Kobe X sneakers, discovered in the sale bin of a Nike outlet store with the jubilation of a true believer finding the holy grail: “Mom, it’s only $50, and it’s exactly my size!” The soles had never touched dirt, but he had to wear it.

“It just feels right,” he said.

I watch them navigate this loss like a death in the family, because it is. Kobe Bryant was part of our everyday, ordinary, wish-basketball-season-would-last-forever life. My friend, Roxana Rosen, a psychologist from West Covina, told me to keep talking about this, allow my kids to cry, and guide their grief according to our beliefs. I found myself constantly offering them food: “Do you want ice cream? Are you hungry?”

A week after, we have managed to get by, discussing the news, watching Lakers players and officials on TV, wondering for the nth time how the families of each victim were feeling and coping. We know the sharp edges of the pain we feel now will someday blur. But as also know that won’t be case for the families who will now have to live through birthdays and anniversaries and first holidays without Dad or Sissy or Mom.

Just as watching Kobe and learning from him all these years was a source of joy for our family, so his loss strengthens our connection to each other. Heartbroken, my boys talk about the death of their hero, their disbelief, their struggle to make sense of it. I speak about a mother’s loss, a wife’s unchartered widowhood.

Slowly, we have returned to our simple but not unappreciated routines: meals to be made, homework to complete, carpools to run, and yes, basketball games to play their hardest at. I’ll be in the sidelines, cheering, sending up grateful prayers for one Kobe Bryant and his daughter, and their friends. In the end, all of them, like all of us, simply hope to answer this question:

“And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?” the poet Raymond Carver wrote. “I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.”

Join the Conversation

We invite you to use our commenting platform to engage in insightful conversations about issues in our community. Although we do not pre-screen comments, we reserve the right at all times to remove any information or materials that are unlawful, threatening, abusive, libelous, defamatory, obscene, vulgar, pornographic, profane, indecent or otherwise objectionable to us, and to disclose any information necessary to satisfy the law, regulation, or government request. We might permanently block any user who abuses these conditions.

If you see comments that you find offensive, please use the “Flag as Inappropriate” feature by hovering over the right side of the post, and pulling down on the arrow that appears. Or, contact our editors by emailing moderator@scng.com.